Confessions, a Train Ride Home

I have  been thinking about writing, and how I am not.

There is a part of me that wants to blame medication, even though I stopped writing before the medication ever came into play. This is not unfair as it has shifted the way I think and feel. The heart does not howl any more, or, I have forgotten how to listen to it. I think this silencing has in turn silenced my need to write, to capture and tame my storms with mere words, precise words. And this should not be a problem, but it is very close, only a step away from, having nothing to say.

Which is not true, cannot be true, yet is very true.

If the need to express a voice does not come from within, then, given all the noise being forced into the world already, how can I possibly justify adding to it? If I have nothing that I need to say, then output must be because there is something I believe others need to hear. The audacity and arrogance aren't mine, not comfortably, to assume I have the authority to decide this. Even though I may choose the platform so that the choice to consume lies with the reader - no. There is already too much noise out there. There is nothing I can say that has not already been said.

There is no requirement for need in the writing of fiction. Need in the writer's voice can lend power to a story, but it is not required. I could write simply because I want to. But when the power of need has fuelled you for so long, action by want seems pale and trivial by comparison.

All that occurred in my life was for writing. All the learning and heartache and new experiences; all grist for the mill. It would all out in the stories one day. But now I don't need to cast my trials in such a light in order to make them palatable enough to see through, my lover stands by me throughout all fire and flood. It is enough to simply spend my days with him. But is it? Is a life that is enjoyed but to no end of any purpose? Writing was a purpose I gave my life in order to keep my life. Now that I am in no such danger, the purpose is no longer required, and yet to simply live is not enough, would be such selfish and wasted time.

I have already lost so much time. To waste more will lead only to self-disgust. Still, I cannot underestimate fear and the scars left by physical pain and emotional anguish that come into play. I lost my future, one I did not even know I projected upon myself, and so all I have and had done became untethered. Echoes of this singular horror I've heard from those struggling with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. It is not for me to self-diagnose, but it would be remiss of me to overlook this one and only echo.

To confront my identity as a writer, to consider reviving it, is to also risk the possibility of losing it again. Hope is such an awful creature. I had to give her away. She cost me too much. To survive I had to give her away. I had to.

Even from now, this place of strength, I can't dip into this subject matter without feeling it in my nerves and knowing that I will never be strong enough to survive the loss of my identity again.

There most probably lies the heart of the matter. Not all the medication and emotional well-being in the world will help me finish a story if I am afraid.

And I am so very afraid.

The Psychosomatic Phrynosoma

The Psychosomatic Phrynosoma is most often found in the abdomen, particularly in the stomach but has been known to roam about the digestive tract and guts according to the stability or lack thereof of its immediate environment.

Eggs are introduced to the host via aural injection, usually riding in upon words that the host does not wish to hear, or that perhaps herald further words that the host does not wish to hear. As these words traverse the earways they trigger various timers and countdowns that will either terminate in their own time or at the behest of external interference.

Once the eggs are deposited in the head they will remain dormant until mindscape surrounding them is at an appropriately fruitful and tense state, at which point they will hatch and begin their journey south in to the literal bowels of their host.

There, depending on the stress under which the host is placed, they will grow into mature adult size which is typically just a little bigger than is comfortable for the host. The host will react by clenching their stomach against this protrusion, which in turn will prompt the Psychosomatic Phrynosoma to extend the many spikes adorning its armour. This conflict will proceed as a struggle of wills, with the Phrynosoma twisting, clawing and scrabbling about with its many spines and claws while the host is most typically sitting calmly in a public place, such as a tram stop or an office desk, gazing distractedly into the distance and working the inside of their lips tensely.

The Psychosomatic Phrynosoma causes no physical damage. The infestation ends once the host's stress drops below viable levels, at which point the Phrynosoma dies, passes through the host's digestive tract, and leaves the body with a moist sigh.

The common name for the Psychosomatic Phrynsoma is "Anxiety".

ETA 28 June 2011: Cockle-warming surprise reading of this post done by the bouncy flouncy Alex Garber.

Apply Now

Tessadom Inc. is now taking applications for the role of SACRIFICIAL MONKEY.

Your role will include giving up your soul, dignity and possibly your life (not necessarily in that order) to Our Lady of Unseen Tensions, who inflicteth and taketh away Repetitive Strain Injuries.

Responsibilities include: stop Tessa's arms from hurting, appeasing the above mentioned saint, and not getting blood on the carpet.